


'Tis the Seasoning

by Duck_Life



Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Christmas Shopping, Cooking, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-14 08:36:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17505242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duck_Life/pseuds/Duck_Life
Summary: Rogue tries to cook. It doesn't go as planned. Meanwhile, Remy is the world's worst gift-giver.





	'Tis the Seasoning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Glowbug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glowbug/gifts).



Rogue emerges from the pantry laden with Old Bay, olive oil, paprika, garlic powder, yellow corn grits and a box of chicken broth. “Good thing Remy keeps the kitchen stocked like a restaurant,” she says, trying to maneuver without dropping any of the ingredients. She turns around and dumps the spices and materials on the counter before glancing over at her cooking assistant. “Warlock! Cut that out.”

“Friend-Gambit’s felis catus unit seems to enjoy these crustaceans,” Warlock says, cheerfully feeding Oliver another shrimp. 

“Yeah, well if the cat eats all the shrimp there won’t be any left for dinner,” she sighs, shooing Oliver off the counter. He jumps down to the floor with a scornful squeak before stalking away with his tail aloft. “Now wash your hands again.” 

“Query, Friend-Rogue: Why?”

“If you’re gonna be handlin’ the food you need to wash your hands,” Rogue says. “’Specially after touchin’ the cat.” When Warlock is done washing his hands, Rogue nudges him away from the sink to wash her own hands. “Okay. Ah need a skillet.”

Warlock holds out his arm, morphing it into a large pan. “Self can provide that.”

“Ah… ’preciate that, ’Lock, really, but Ah think we’ll stick with Pampered Chef,” she says, pulling out one of Remy’s pans. She’s no chef, especially not to the extent that Remy is, and up ‘til now the most ambitious dish she’s taken on has been instant oatmeal. But this is their first Christmas together as a married couple, and she wanted to do something nice to surprise Remy. Fortunately, Warlock offered to help out.

She's got a recipe to follow. What could go wrong?

* * *

 

“ALARM ALARM fire-burn-danger-char-flame,” Warlock screeches twelve minutes later while Rogue tries to put out the ignited grits.

* * *

 

“What ‘bout these?” Remy asks, showing off a pair of green satin opera gloves. He and Ororo have been traipsing around the mall for hours now. Everything he picks out for Rogue gets shot down for being “too impersonal” or “inappropriate” or “from Claire’s.” 

Ororo raises an eyebrow at his latest selection. “You're getting her… gloves? Don't you think she might have enough of those?”

“See, this is why I need you with me, Stormy,” Remy sighs, putting the gloves back on the rack while Ororo rolls her eyes at the old nickname. “Ooh! She mentioned the other day that our dishwasher isn't so great. I could get her a new one.”

“By the Goddess,” Ororo mumbles under her breath. The two of them move through Macy’s, stopping occasionally so Ororo can examine a necklace that Jean might like, and so Remy can sniff every perfume on the display trying to decide if Rogue might want one. “Does she even wear perfume?”

“Ah… no,” Remy says. “But maybe that’s just because no one’s bought her any?”

“Okay, okay,” his shopping companion sighs, reaching up to tighten her ponytail. “What did you get her for her birthday?” He snickers, looking as mischievous as ever. “ _ What _ ?”

“I made her a coupon book,” he says. “For, uh, sex, backrubs, anything she wants.” He looks pleased with himself, but Ororo looks appalled.

“You’re an adult,” she reminds him. 

“Hey, she loved that thing!”

Ororo just shakes her head and breezes past him to look at a display of cashmere sweaters. Remy sighs and hurries to catch up with her.

“I got it,” he says, snapping his fingers. “She hates the smell of cigarettes. I could give up smoking! Dat’ll be my present for her.”

Ororo looks about ready to scream. “How are you so bad at this?”

* * *

 

Back at Rogue and Remy’s apartment building, all the fire alarms are screeching at a painful decibel. Warlock only adds to the cacophony with his repeated squealing of “ALARM ALARM ALARM FIRE” as he, Rogue and every other tenant in the place shuffle out to the snow-covered street. 

“Ah can’t do anything right,” Rogue laments, crossing her arms over her chest.

Warlock stops screeching and cocks his head to the side. “As Self understands, the ability to create fire is a very useful skill.”

“Can it, tin can.” 

Disgruntled tenants line up along the sidewalk waiting for the telltale wail of sirens. Rogue managed to put the fire out, but not in time to keep the smoke from hitting the smoke detectors. And now they’re shut out until the firefighters show up to confirm that the building is safe. Warlock looks around at the people on the sidewalk, many of them in pajamas and robes already. 

“Friend-Rogue… should we apologize?” Warlock whispers to her. 

Rogue shakes her head, glancing around to make sure the other tenants didn’t hear. They’re throwing Warlock a couple of odd glances, but after living in the same building as Remy Lebeau for years, most of them don’t question his strange and alien visitors. 

At that moment, Ororo and Remy show up. “ _ Bonjour, ma couer _ ,” Remy says sweetly, puling Rogue into a kiss. Ever since she got her power-dampening tennis bracelet from Hank, Remy has enjoyed greeting her with kisses and hugs every time he sees her. “What happened here?”

Rogue blushes, embarrassed. “Ah… Ah tried to cook,” she admits. “It was s’posed to be a surprise for you, a real Cajun Christmas dinner, but Ah screwed up and well… the fire alarms went off and now we’re all out here.

“You were cooking dinner for me?” Remy says, touched, but he gets interrupted when the man behind him overhears. 

“Waitaminute,” he says, elbowing Remy out of the way so he can look at Rogue. “You’re the reason we’re all standin’ out here freezin’ our asses off? Jesus, lady, what’s the matter with you? You never learned to cook?”

“’Scuse me,  _ sir _ , you’re interruptin’ our conversation,” Rogue says with ice in her voice. The man doesn’t look perturbed.

“Howzabout you order takeout next time, girlie?” the man sneers. 

Remy looks over at him, his red-black eyes flashing. “Hey, that’s my wife,” he says, privately thrilled at calling her that. He typically does it as much as possible—  _ my wife would like a glass of water please, have you met my wife?, this is Rogue and she’s my wife _ . “She was doing something nice for  _ me _ and she accidentally started a tiny little fire. So what? Enjoy the brisk night air,  _ homme _ .” 

The man looks like he’s about to spit back another insult, but when he gets a look at Remy, Rogue, Ororo and even Warlock glaring at him, he thinks again. “Whatever,” he sighs, turning to go stand with a huddled group of tenants. 

Rogue puts her arms around Remy, smiling up at him. “You stood up for me.”

“But of course.”

She cranes her neck up to kiss him. “That’s better than any Christmas present.”

“Oh good, so I can return the chocolates and Lila CD I got for you?”

Rogue squeals, pulling him toward her to kiss him again. “No, forget what Ah said, those are good presents and Ah want them.”

“I thought you might,” Remy says. He dips her low and kisses her again, and the snow is gray and slushy around their feet and the fire engine is pulling up behind them and Warlock and Ororo are definitely trading sly glances the longer their newlywed friends carry on like this, but it’s all okay. 

It’s Christmastime, and they’re in love, and that’s sort of all that matters. At least right now.  


End file.
